


Thicker Than Water

by Hiver_Noir



Category: The Hitcher (1986)
Genre: Abduction, Gen, Hostage Situations, Mind Games, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25187104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiver_Noir/pseuds/Hiver_Noir
Summary: Ryder offers Jim a bet on his life.
Relationships: Jim Halsey/John Ryder
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Thicker Than Water

**Author's Note:**

> UNBETAED. Read at your own risk.

I didn't want to hurt you  
But you're pretty when you cry  
  


\- Your hair is so soft.

Blunt fingers move through the dark strands slowly, allowing them to slide over rough palms while their owner watches the process with an unblinking stare, his eyes never leaving their aim. Finally, the man’s gaze drops slightly, resting on the face in front of him, and his pupils shrink and dilate, like a camera’s diaphragm, searching for focus.

\- And your skin as well. 

Lingering in their place for a moment longer, massive hands finally leave Jim’s disheveled hair, allowing him to let out a _tiny sigh of_ relief, followed by with another hitched breath the very next moment – Ryder’s palm presses itself against his cheek, dragging over the wet surface. Jim doesn't know whether it was his sweat or tears that caused it, but in either case, the man doesn’t seem to mind. 

\- Did your mother do that? - He moves his hand a little lower, stroking the skin in a circular motion. - She liked to touch you so much, you decided to run away from her, proving your independence. - A hand crawls to the back of Jim’s neck, clutching the locks and forcing him to lift his head up a little, his throat bared. - Took a stranger into your car... That's how it happened, right? 

Jim doesn’t respond. It’s not like he has nothing to say, but his lips are closed by a strip of tape, rendering him unable to utter a single word. As for the gestures, he wouldn't have succeeded with using them either - his hands are tied behind his back, so he looks like a hostage from a movie, except for what's happening to him doesn’t feel like a movie at all. Movies are supposed to make sense, at least; the madman in front of him clearly doesn’t. 

Ryder looks at him a little longer and shakes his head, as if he has suddenly remembered something. He grabs the edges of the tape and slowly peels it off - fortunately for Jim, the sticky surface easily leaves his tears-drenched face, and for some reason, in response to this simple action, his eyes well up even more. Jim is afraid he would die from dehydration in this desert if he continues to cry so much. But he is also afraid he can’t live long enough for this to happen.

\- How old are you, kid?

\- You know how old I am. - Jim says quietly. - You’ve seen my license.

\- Not too good at small talk, are you? - Ryder looks at him with disappointment written in his face, but Jim doesn't fall for it. There isn't a shred of feeling in his eyes, cold and clear as two pieces of glass, and this frozen stare itself takes Jim’s fright to a new level. 

\- Please... - Jim clenches his jaw, forcing himself to swallow that intrusive, stupid word he kept repeating like a clockwork doll until Ryder has taped his mouth. He picks the next lines carefully, feeling as he is walking on a thin ice, but at the end he slips all the same, finding himself on his knees and begging. - What do you want from me? I'll do it. I won't tell anyone... - Jim licks his lips, tasting the brine on his tongue. - I won't say anything.

\- Dead boys aren't very talkative. - Ryder shrugs his words off casually. The floors of his coat sway in the air like a pair of heavy velvet curtains - somehow the word «hearse» pops up in Jim’s head, but it takes him a moment before the meaning behind it finally reaches him. It’s almost seems like his consciousness is deliberately trying to slow down the process, to push the threatening reality as far as possible; Jim flinches as if something aches inside him, fighting to stop his lips both from trembling and saying anything else; a fresh surge of tears makes Ryder’s silluette blurry, rendering it into a huge pool of black oil – teardrops roll out of Jim’s eyes like hot heavy beads, sucking the warmth and leaving him cold in their wake. He feels the man touch his cheeks again - Ryder lifts his head up, compelling Jim to face him, and Jim realizes he doesn't want to miss a single detail of the show.

\- I told you crying won't help. - Ryder says it with a tinge of frustration and fatigue in his tone, and that scares Jim even more. He's afraid the man will kill him right now, being unable to achieve what he wants from him, whatever it is. – Tears are thicker than water, but blood is thicker than either.

\- I'm sorry. - Jim mutters. - I’m just...

His throat is seized by a spasm, and he trails off. For a while, Ryder is silent, staring at him, and Jim clamps his eyes shut until it hurts, trying to stop the bitter stream _flooding_ all over his face. 

\- Let me tell you something.

A husky voice breaks the silence, and Jim’s nerves flare up, blood surging through him in a panicked rush. He is listening to the man desperately, still unable to let go of the last splinter of hope, praying the killer would leave him alone if he’d give him the thing he wants. As soon as Ryder's voice falls, a heavy palm grips Jim by the shoulder, forcing his body to jolt in response. 

\- Tell you what. - Ryder says measuredly. - And you’d better listen to me carefully. We'll play a game, you and I – I think it would be fair, don't you? If you win, you can walk away. Safe and sound. I'll even drop you off at the nearest gas station. And if I win...

The words are followed by meaningful silence.

Jim is silent too. Once again he is full of hope and yet, at the same time he doesn't dare to believe the killer will keep his promise. He's dizzy with chaotic thoughts, rushing under his skull like moths throwing themselves into burning flames, leaving him unable to fetch a single coherent sentence.

\- What wrong? Have you swallowed your tongue? I can pull it out for you.

Obviously, Ryder is losing his patience - a crisp metallic click cuts through the air, and Jim snaps his head up blindly, opening his eyes. He has already heard that sound today. He speaks quickly, stumbling and getting tangled in syllables.

\- I agree! I do…

\- Great. - Ryder chuckles softly. This seems to be the first manifestation of emotion on his part since he dragged Jim here, to this empty warehouse somewhere on the side of the road. - So. Rules of the game, kid. I will let you go ... if you’d stop crying.

Jim stares at him in disbelief, unsure that he has even heard the words. Is that all? Is that all the psycho wants from him? But a few moments later he realizes this condition would not be so simple to fulfill. It seems like the source of tears in his body should have run dry long ago, but they still keep leaking and dripping out, like blood from a freshly open wound.

\- Do you think you can do it?

Jim nods hastily, and Ryder leans towards him again, hovering over his head.

\- Good.

Ryder pulls out a handkerchief and wipes Jim's face clean, drying the tears. In the end, the man runs his fingers over Jim’s lips thoughtfully, paying no attention to how he leans aside, trying to avoid being touched. Once he's finished tidying Jim up, the man takes a wristwatch out of his pocket. After a brief glance, he lifts it in front of Jim to show him the dial.

\- Five minutes. If you’ll stop crying during this time, I'll let you go. But... - Ryder looks up at him again. The corners of his lips are slowly moving apart, but the smile never reaches his eyes. - Will you be able to?

Jim clenches his teeth. A ray of light just flashed in the darkness before him and he is desperately afraid Ryder is simply toying with him, giving a bit of hope just to take it away. With an effort, he draws a breath into his lungs, and the air seems thick and sticky like honey. Five minutes. That's all. Like a song on the radio, even less than the time he needs to take a smoke. He can do it, he can't give up. 

All this time, Ryder calmly examines his face. His hand reaches out, and Jim barely holds back the urge to pull away as he feels something narrow and cold touching his neck. He quickly glances at Ryder, struggling to stifle a new fit of panic in the bud.

\- I need to ensure you won’t get bored while waiting. - He explains. - You didn’t think everything would be easy, did you?”

The blade moves higher, slowly dragging across the skin until it rests against the corner of Jim’s jaw, and Jim slightly leans his head to the side. Meanwhile, Ryder’s other palm falls again on the back of his head, the fingers weaving into the hair to hold Jim in place. Jim clearly feels how hot Ryder’s hands are. In the car, they seemed icy to him.

\- Yes. - Ryder says quietly. - Everything would have been different if you hadn't stopped.

Somehow Jim feels choked by these words, his breath growing more rapid. Ryder tilts his head, observing him – his hand move through the strands leisurely, stroking the skin underneath. The man closes his eyes for a few moments, as if in order to fully enjoy this sensation.

\- Do you remember when your Mom used to wash your head? She'd took a bottle of shampoo in her delicate little hand and applied it here, like that. - He gently massages the scalp, and this time Jim doesn’t dare to wince under the touch or move in the slightest, minding the knife near his throat. - Do you remember what it smelled like? What was it? Strawberry? Pear, peach? Surely something sweet, right? As sweet as her boy.

It was chewing gum, Jim suddenly recalls. A blue bottle of shampoo that smelled just like chewing gum - it was his favorite one. Memories roll upon him one after the other, like waves, drowning him in a cold river of despair - their small bathroom, white foam and green tile with a yellow lamp above his head - a small, dull sun reflected in the warm soapy water. Meanwhile, Ryder continues.

\- Did the foam ever get into your eyes? I'm sure it did. Sweetness always carries a bit of pain. You have probably cried. – Ryder pauses, and when he starts talking again, there’s something different in his tone. - What did she do when this happened?

His voice sounds so quiet and stiffened now, like he’s is making some kind of a terrible, unamendable confession - the subtle softness it is laced with lends his words an eerie resemblance to a declaration of love – unrequited and stale, but still striving. Now he pets Jim’s head with his an open palm, moving it in wide, gentle strokes.

-Did she console you then? Hugged you when you were scared and in pain? How sorry she must feel now for letting you ride alone, waiting for you to call her… it’s a pity she waits in vain.

Cautiously, Jim's eyes open a little wider. He is clearly aware of what the man wants to achieve, filling him with homesickness and self-pity, but these images serve only to emphasize his unwillingness to succumb, brining a flare of tired, hollow anger. There's no way. He will not give up, not to this man, not so easily.

While he is still pondering on it, Ryder’s next words hit him like a slap.

\- Just to think her boy will never come back to her. - Ryder speaks like he is simply thinking out loud. - But maybe it's for the best. You think she could endure it ... could still recognize you ... without a face? 

Something inside Jim trembles, - it seems his whole body is about to rattle - he suddenly realizes his own heart is beating so fast the sound of it merges into continuous anxious hum. He exhales carefully through his lips. His eyes begin to burn, almost as if they have been staring straight into the sun – terrified and wide-open, and Jim squeezes his bound hands, driving short nails into the soft flesh of his palms. Meanwhile, Ryder leaves his hair alone and starts stroking his temples and cheekbones - he traces his fingers around the contour of Jim’s face, estimating the cut line.

\- Do you know how easy it is to remove the skin from the skull? You just need to trim it right here. - Ryder runs a thumb across his temple. - And pull ...

Jim drops his head on his chest, unable to bear it; Ryder’s touch burns his skin, and this sensation of heat is spreading all over his face, gathering in his eye sockets like rainwater. He notices something fall down to land on his knee, covered in denim, staining the cloth with a small dark spot; another spot appears right next to it, and Jim blinks in surprise - but in vain: all of a sudden, everything is blurry before his eyes; his knees, the walls, Ryder's dark silhouette, looming in front of him - all is blending together, morphing into one large blot of spilled oil to drown the whole world in black.

\- What do we have here? - The tip of the knife pushes on Jim’s chin, forcing his head up. Ryder peeks into his face sympathetically; the blade outlines the corner of Jim’s tense mouth, slowly crawling up to pick up one of the large, transparent drops off his cheek. Ryder tilts the knife in his hand, causing the drop to slide across the steel, studying it in the light, until he lets it fall, no longer interested. The man's other hand reaches for the watch, and he shakes it again in front of Jim like a pendulum.

\- There's one minute left. You lost. - The sympathetic expression on Ryder's face suddenly changes - merely a paper mask, now ripped off and crumpled. A carnivorous grin splits his features into two halves, and Jim twitches, trying to slip away and almost falls off the hood in the process, but Ryder grabs his shoulder, holding him in place.

\- No, no, no... - Jim's rushes to the side, which is awfully hard to do with his hands tied. A narrow blade glimpses right in front of his eyes like a prickly little lightning, causing him to recoil, and after a couple of moments he hears a snap. It takes him a few more seconds to realize his hands are free.

He tries to push Ryder away, but the man picks him by his collar and lifts him up in one hand like a doll, so Jim is suspended in front of him... now the tears flow out of Jim’s eyes freely, as if someone forgot to turn off the water tap. Nausea rises to his throat, and his head becomes terribly light - it seems he would have thrown up, had there been something inside his stomach. 

-Where are you going? Did you forget you lost, Jim? Do loser boys get to choose their own destiny? - Ryder leans towards him, close as it gets, and growls into his lips, dousing them with tobacco breathe - I think I will make this choice for you.

Jim sobs in his arms, no longer trying to break free; Ryder has caught him, he finally did; he gasps for air, choking with tears. The man’s arm encircles his waist, pressing hard, and Jim feels like he's falling into a huge cloud of sun-heated road dust. It’s so hot and stuffy, but at the same time there’s a chill tingling within his spine.

\- You may cry now all you’d like to, Jim. There's nothing wrong with that. - Through an amazing metamorphosis, Ryder's growl turns into a barely audible velvety whisper, but even now, shuddering and half-deafened by his own sobs, Jim hears his words very clearly - and could it have been different when they flow right into his ear; Ryder slips his fingers lazily over Jim’s wet face, smearing the salty liquid away. - You've lost, there is something to cry about.

\- Don't kill me... please... - To his own surprise, Jim is still trying to fight a way out of this. The words fall out of his mouth on their own, like there's some tape scrolling inside his body, doomed to repeat itself until someone would smash the player and end it all. He still doesn't want to die.

Ryder laughs quietly somewhere in the bowels of this rough, wet heat, and soft jolts of air coming out of his wide chest tickle Jim's neck. Jim thinks he's already dizzy, but after a few moments he realizes Ryder is truly spinning them both across the room - everything in front of him floats and spills out in colorful blots, reminding him of a gasoline rainbow over the water, toxic and bright; sparkles of dim light appear and go out in his eyes like sunken galleons. 

\- Did I say I'd kill you? No, it's not going to be that easy, kid. I think I will keep you... - A strong forearm squeezes Jim’s harder, emphasizing the words and pressing him into a stone-like torso, while Ryder weaves their fingers together, leading Jim’s hand aside in a parody of a dance - as if it was a signal, Jim's body goes limp, fully exhausted. His head drops on the man’s chest as Jim closes his eyes, trying to overcome this stiffening weakness while the murderer keeps whispering in his ear. - And we'll play games again, all kinds of games, and maybe, one day, you will win in one of them.


End file.
